


The Never Letters

by waterpeach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Drama, Europe, F/M, Music, Mystery, Official Gorillaz Music, Pearl Harbor - Freeform, Romance, Slow Burn, Suspense, Traveling, World War II, gorillaz au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-09-19 15:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17004408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterpeach/pseuds/waterpeach
Summary: It has been one year since Stuart Pot lost his parents to the London Bombings of September 7th 1940. After moving to Oahu, Hawaii with his aunt, he retrieves memorabilia from his old home in Crawley, only to find a strange note addressed to Murdoc Niccals, an English sailor who’s home will always and forever will be the sea. Two lives intertwine as the mysterious writer unleashes hidden secrets, rumors and connections Murdoc and Stuart never saw coming. And who is this ‘boy’ they must chase after? (HIATUS)





	1. Expression

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to The Never Letters! I’ve been working on this fic for quite a while and I’m very excited to finally kick this off! Feedback is very much appreciated! xoxo
> 
> Trigger warnings: Childhood abuse, suicide attempt, alcoholism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end.

“We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.“ ~Winston Churchill

“What do you see?” 

Eleven year old Murdoc Alphonse Niccals’ eyes fluttered. He looked up at the white sky, the sun, similar to a small pale grape, watched his every movements. He looked down, taking in the lush watery breeze. “....the sea.”

“No...erm...like...what do you see in the sea?”

“You’re confusing me.” Murdoc grumbled. “Plus, this is a river, not the sea, there’s a difference you know.” 

Hannibal Niccals gave a breathy chuckle and scratched his buzz cut. “I just was trying to ask wh-what you think of it, metaphorically, I always like to hear what you think about things, you can turn it into a piece of art.”

“A peace of art?” Murdoc asked quietly and turned his head slowly to his older brother.

“You make everything seem like they have purpose, whether it is good or bad, you make it….represent something. Tell me what you think of it? It makes me...feel better.” Hannibal lit a cigar and rested it between his lips. The scent of the water was now mixed with smoke. Murdoc’s nose twitched.

“Heh….well….it’s kinda sad actually.”

“Is that so?” Hannibal moved the cigar with his tongue.

Murdoc’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “But it is a person, a sad person with a twisted mind, he can raise hell and heaven with both of his hands, he is someone to nurture and to destroy...is that what you wish for you greedy bastard?”

Hannibal squawked with laughter and the smoke moved with his bobbing head, up and down. “It’s just nice to hear from someone who views it differently, I certainly could never come up with any rubbish like that!”

“Alright, then tell me what you think of it? I enjoy it actually. I am supposed to of course, my name means the sea.”

“Does that mean...you are the hellraiser? Not a fib, brother.” 

“No….no it’s someone else.”

“Like some...imaginary friend? You embarrass the shit outta me sometimes.”

“No! No….” Murdoc muttered and shot upward, clenching his fists, and blowing back the tuff of his black hair. “It has to be someone I’m connected to at least, I don’t know I just….I just feel like the sea is a person, and that person is in it, floating forever.”

“Hmm. Entertaining.” Hannibal chuckled and grunted as he stood up and released more smoke, he was shirtless, with thick black suspenders trailing up his back and front, his trousers covered in soot and dirt, from the late nights of chimney cleaning. “You should write that down, poetry is lacking in the ‘Are You A Star’ campaign.” 

Murdoc bit his lip and turned towards the river Trent. “I am never going back there.”

“Wait till father hears about that.”

Nails punctured Murdoc’s tanned palms upon hearing Hannibal’s remarks. No matter how far Murdoc ran from Stoke on Trent, the sour fumes of alcohol and the growling of his father found him back and dragged him across floor after floor. The dirty carpet, wood soaked with beer and pierced with nails, the splintery boards across the kitchen, the ground was his worst enemy, and Murdoc Niccals knew eventually in the end he will be under it, worse than on it. He hated the dirt, and the wood, the slaps and barks of his father, his hair not being washed in days, eyes becoming red rimmed and lazy.

What a crooked creature he was, hair greased, nose flattened and broken countless of times, day after day his back grew weary, hands calloused and unwashed. 

“I am going to run! I-I am going to leave! And, a-and I will not be p-pushed around any longer.”

Hannibal has heard such statements before, his mouth still hung open because of the cigar, he cocked a bushy brow. For a boy of fifteen years, his language was surprisingly equivalent to a manipulative snake’s. “Yeah, we will see about it you rat! You understand you are all we have now?” His voiced began to trickle with rage, then he raced to grab his little brother’s chin. “To eat, to drink,” his older brother bared his yellow stained teeth. “to live!”

“Right,” Murdoc scoffed and then gasped at the force of his brothers fingers’ pinches. “and you can’t do one bloody thing about it…” 

“I have bloody been!” Hannibal growled and pushed him back, Murdoc felt the scratches on his chin and winced. “I have done nothing but work, you don’t understand, scraps are hard to find now these days, dad cares more about your ‘arts’ than anything else in the fucking world.” He sighed. “I am not saying you are a slave-“

“That is exactly what you mean!” Murdoc growled. “It’s as if I-I am the father! I am taking care of an old man and I can’t even take care of myself, because you lazy arses can’t-“ 

“I am doing everything in my power to stop us from starving, dying even. Murdoc I can’t do this any longer.” Hannibal’s expression cooled, his fingers lost their grip on his little brothers chin, he stared into Murdoc’s innocent pools. “He keeps asking...asking for more and more….and he is relying on you more and more. Can’t you see what he has been doing? He is going to kill himself, if not him ‘us’, if you don’t create more, that is what you do, don’t you?” 

“Wh-what have you been going through?” Murdoc’s voice cracked slightly as his eyes drifted towards the side of Hannibal’s neck. It was scratched, specks is dried blood still emerged from the cut. 

“Never mind that.” Hannibal let go of his little brothers chin and took a step backwards. “What I am saying is...is that-“

“He’s hurting you again!”

“No! No, Murdoc it was just an accident in the chimney.”

“You sodding liar!” The young child’s voice cracked even more profoundly. “W-we have to hide the bottles, call-call the police!”

“No...no we don’t, you just need to listen to him...and do as he says...and no one gets hurt.”

“Says bloody who?!” Hannibal inched backwards and leaned against the hard railway, the watery breeze blew at his bare back and lit out the butt of his cigar. His younger brother clenched his fists and hollered. “Says who….I-If I continue to stand in front of that stage, and y-you, continue to almost fall to your death everyday in some rich blokes chimney, where will we go from here!? I am sick of stealing, and falling, and crying, and hitting! I am sick of standing on the ground! Don’t sodding walk away from me!” 

“Murdoc stop-“

Murdoc refused to hear his brothers plea. Hannibal looked everywhere but him, hoping no one was watching his brothers outburst. 

“I am always on the ground….” Murdoc whimpered, he approached his brother against the chipped railings near the river, and glare into his eyes. “I am always left. On. The. Ground. And I don’t wanna be on the ground. I wanna be….I...I wanna be.” Murdoc trailed and looked past his older brothers shoulder. 

Hannibal spit his cigar from his mouth and moved towards his little brother, who attempted to climb the railings and to plunge into the grey water. “No! No!” He grabbed Murdoc by the underarms and pulled his frail body backwards. 

“Let me go! I wanna...I wanna be free! Hannibal stop! Set me free!” His little brother continued to scream and scramble in his arms. Hannibal winced as several folk eyed the obnoxious brothers. As a few moments passed, his little brother continued to whine and cry, his bruised hands reaching towards the railing. Eventually, Hannibal grasped harder, but something was up his little brothers sleeve, something he has never seen his brother do. The child’s hands raised to scratch Hannibal’s eyes, his abnormally dirty and long fingernails locked into his older brothers lower eyelids and they pulled.

Hannibal screeched and cursed as he felt warm blood trickle down his cheeks, he felt his brother climb on top of him to reach his goal. Before he knew it, his little brother mounted the top of the railing and braced to jump. Hannibal cleared his blood from his broken eyes and saw a wave crash over Murdoc’s body from the wind, and once he saw the frail body leap into the abyss, Hannibal let out a blood curdling scream.

At this very moment, this was the first wish Murdoc had received. The wish to feel no sense hardness beneath him, the coldness of the cobblestone, or the wooden planks smelling of alcohol or his brothers blood after a beating from their father. This wish came true, and it was magnificent, he was free, he was in the water, where nothing could hurt him, or touch him. 

It was terrifying at first, once Murdoc began to fall, but he told himself if he shut his eyes, and spread his arms, the sea could take him, and heal him. And how he explained the water, was correct, it was something Hannibal couldn’t understand, honestly no one at all, but him. It could raise hell yes, but for now Murdoc could feel it’s heavenly embrace, cradling his weary body. He fought so long, and so hard for this, and this was his chance, and he succeeded. 

That is until a pair of meaty rough hands grabbed his ripped button up and hoisted him upward. 

No. No this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Heaven was in his reach, and it was taken away from him in such a short amount of time. His back hit the cobblestone road, he could hear gasps of terror and sorrow, and angry shouts from his brother.

“You sodding imbecile! Don’t you ever do that again!”

Murdoc felt liters of water spill from his lips, he began to cough and hack as the salty, sour air of Stoke On Trent entered his lungs again, and now nothing was heavenly for him anymore. The first thing he saw was the bulging, blood shot eyes of Hannibal, shaking his body, screaming into his face. Murdoc couldn’t make out most of the sentences, but he did know most of them were insults and unnecessary jabs. His head turned to the side to ignore his brothers commentary, yet he still heard the screaming and his brothers blood began to drip from his cheeks to Murdoc’s.

The child noticed different types of shoes. Old. New. Shabby. Clean. They were surrounding him, all different souls, all different lives. For what reason? He was Murdoc Niccals, a lonely boy, dirt in his mouth and the sea in his soul, who could care for that? 

His eyelids began to lower, and the shoes began to cave in, and Hannibal stopped shaking his little brother. The last thing he saw, was the stomping of rough black shoes, shoes Murdoc knew all too well, they were ripped at the seams, the black leather was faded and the owners walk made Murdoc shiver with fear. The dark shoes approached his body, and Murdoc’s eyes began to close, never wanting to see those shoes again.

…

After the fall, Murdoc Alphonse Niccals never knew the world the same way again. He remembers the people afterwards, and the bandages and the blood. He remembers the beatings becoming worse, and the alcohol almost became a remedy to heal the internal wounds of stress and pain. 

Father showed no mercy, no sense of appreciation or grace. Hannibal seemed to drift farther from him, and all Murdoc really had was himself, and the ground. The ground was a mate, someone who always returned to him in the end. He remembers countless nights with him and the ground. From dusk until dawn. Left curled up onto it, instead of his small rickety bed. Father never liked Murdoc’s room, cause father wasn’t dim-witted, he knew what his son could create within his quarters. Murdoc’s room was his mind, and Sebastian Jacob Niccals knew that all too well. 

Freedom was something coming from Murdoc’s far fetched, idiotic imagination. He had to fight for himself, for he knew no one else would, and he would try to get anything he wanted, even if it costed the most important things Murdoc has to hold. 

He learned to want more than need. Needing. What a docile word, something Murdoc couldn’t affiliate himself with. He knew Sebastian wouldn’t like it, and Hannibal would never talk to him again. Want. Want want want. That is what Murdoc needed. He needed to want. 

And needing to want is what he did. He chased the water. He chased every single thing regarding the water and it’s heavenly touch it gave him, he ran from his father, his pain and bruises. His broken bones and his cracked skull. 

But when he stood on the edge, looking over the swirling pool of peace and self discovery in Stoke On Trent. He paused. He always paused and pondered. And Murdoc always found himself clenching that very bar, keeping him from his escape.

Broken hands healed, fingers grew stronger and tougher, holding a bottle of alcohol in one and a cigar in the other. Eventually, a rope entered Murdoc Alphonse Niccals’ hands, which dipped through the water, and a ship towered with greatness above him.

If Murdoc couldn’t live in the sea, then why not live on it?

 

…

The water curled around his skin and fingers in such a delicate motion, that Stuart Pot trembled at its touch. 

His eyes remained drooped as he opened them halfway, letting the salty liquid penetrate his cornea. He pushed a small amount of bubbles out of his nostrils, then paused, then exhaled, then paused, then exhaled. He sat in peace for a short amount of time before the air left his lungs and he opened his tired mouth to sigh. Stuart was a bit disgusted at the taste of the water, and he rose slowly, coughing, feeling embarrassed at his mistake.

“Not used to such a thing are you?” A mellow voice called across from him. 

Stuart looked and stopped squeezing the liquid from his hair to find a woman grabbing a handful of clothes and accessories to wash and dry. “Yes um….we didn't have this particular recreational use back in Crawley.”

“Well I can see that, you sure are going to stand out in the crowd with that skin.”

Stuart looked at his hands and arms and chuckled, letting the disrespectful joke pass. Hawaii was new, exciting, something Stuart Pot never dreamed he would travel too, but now he was here, and by first glance he knew he wanted to stay here forevermore. He just had to fit in. 

“Well I must get back to ‘work’ then, yeah?” Pot grinned and the missing tooth gaps caused the big pudgy woman to chuckle, she watched him as he slowly trotted in the aqua ocean, and then raised her voice. 

“By ‘work’, I don't believe that! I think it should be something out of the water. You can bake your skin this way.” She called and Stuart stopped and turned, smoothing his abnormal azure hair back. The lady smirked and lifted up a blue jean cap and a beige and white striped button up with pearl shorts. 

Stuart knew what time it was. 

He cocked his head to the side, grinned humorously once more and exited the shore, grabbing the clothes from the woman and a large basket of newspapers from the davenport. 

…

It was a tad cloudy that day, which caused the civilians to go into a mellow, more relaxed state of mind. Stuart didn't get many greetings as he cycled from house to house, tossing the daily Oahu news on their front patios. It was a Monday, he knew people weren't up and at it like on weekends or holidays. But, he always appreciated a kind greeting every now and then.

He'd come to realize the islands were personally more friendly with open arms, compared to England. It was a fresh start, a new chronicle to begin, and it started with one newspaper and friendly greeting at a time. 

Aunt Nell was a saint, well besides intaking all of the alcohol in the cupboards. Stuart was grateful beyond words to have such support and love, after what happened nearly a year ago when visiting London. Sure, he was twenty three, and sure, he could definitely set off on his own and find living arrangements, but Nell wouldn't let that suffice, for she knew Pots has seen things she wouldn't have never thought a young man like him would encounter him. 

And of course he would take her offer, delivering papers in Oahu was a stark contrast to delivering in London.

Stuart gripped his bag as he braced for several large pot holes in the gravel, he giggled slightly at the dips and bumps and picked up the pace, greeting his ‘foreign’ friends as he tossed and tossed and tossed, apologizing at the three times for hitting a few in the head. 

The wind and ocean spray rippled against his skin and hair, he sighed happily at the feeling and tucked some long strands behind his ear. He knew where his next stop was, the harbors.

At Stu’s first stop, he tossed a paper to a group of eager boys, chasing him and poking fun at his eyes, and Pot could only laugh and slip his paper out to throw at them playfully. He knew his looks were...quite different, but such matters of teasing and taunting weren't touched or even thought about, he knew things in his body were different, but Stuart just needed to smile, with his broken teeth, and smile with his bloody black eyes. And that's what he did...or…tried to at his next stop. 

The military compound was approaching and before he knew it Stuart was face to face with large torpedo ships, soldiers and sailors training and building artillery. Oh how he wanted to serve, all of his mates did of course, he could only imagine how interesting it would be to get your hands on a gun, to destroy those dastardly Nazi’s and blow them in the head. But that was only a dream of revenge for Stuart, he tried his best not to let the third right enter his mind.

A few soldiers excepted his papers, until the last one. Stuart was getting tired now, and he reached the end of the military base, next to an entrance to a naval ship stood an older sailor crossing his arms almost angrily, leaning against a stark white pole. His skin was dry and slightly tanned, messy black hair covering most of his forehead, then greased down his neck. His eyes moved like a predator ready to trap its meal, they looked dark and tired, red rimmed and….almost sad.

Stuart stopped and put both hands on the side of his mouth and hollered. “Sir! Sir! Hello!” The sailor turned, his mouth scrunched in a frown. “You wouldn’t care for one of these?” Stuart waved the paper happily in the air. 

The man strolled up to Stuart and he lowered the paper in his hands, presenting it to him with a cheery smile. He could tell the sailor was eyeing his broken teeth and dark eyes. Stuart saw his thin mouth open, he knew this was going to be a jab at his physicality, he could feel his eyebrows begin to scrunch and prepare for the worst.

“Another English bloke, eh?”

Stuart paused and lowered the paper in astonishment. “You….I….oh! I didn’t know-“

The man was quick to speak, it was sharp, like a dagger puncturing Stuart’s next choice of words. “Hm, well it’s nice to see another one, erm,” he sighed and dug in his pocket. “how much for one of those?”

“Um...f-five cents, sir.”

“God, it’s going to be one hell of an article by taking a look at that picture.” The older man then proceeded to put a nickel in Stuart’s hands, and snatched the newspaper with a swap. He cringed at the picture of the photo of Adolf and read aloud with a hint of muttering: “Accusing President Roosevelt of endeavoring with all the means at his disposal to provoke incidents for the purpose of baiting the American people into the war.” 

Stuart sighed. “Yeah, the Greer. It seems as if nothing will ever reach peace now these days.”

“Bloody Churchill better provide the states strength.” The man cleared his throat and then rolled the paper into a cylinder and shoved it down in his pocket, it stuck out. It was silent for a few moments after that, the man now narrowed his eyes at Stuart, who now wrapped his arms around his bicycle handles.

“Is something wrong sir?” Stuart had a few ideas of what the man was analyzing, his eyes were the first thought. He was right, typical.

“What have you got there mate?” The man grinned, he had a mocking tone in his raspy voice. 

Stuart was quite used to such questions, he sighed, but tried to remain his cheery self. “It was an accident, back in London.”

“Well, you look like a bloody psychopath, I know a bloke who can fix that. What did you pour ink in your eyes.”

Stuart blinked. “No! No….” How despicable. Stuart swallowed profoundly. “I think I am fine with who I am right now.”

“Better watch yourself mate, fuckers don’t play nice around here, we are at war.”

“Believe me sir...I-I have witnessed terrible people accuse me of being a freak before. I...I hope you have a good rest of your day…”

Stuart put his lanky body on the bicycle and began to push. 

“Hey, mate! Didn’t catch your name! I have to know my own people!”

Stuart paused and stopped peddling. “I don’t think it matters!” He hollered back to the man. He could see his outline cross his arms and cock his head to the side. 

“Well! From what I see, you look like you’ve got two dents in your head, right where your eyes should be. Wait!....Two Dents! Two Dents! Yeah that fits, see you around Two Dents. Oh! And thanks for the free news, cheers!” After that the man gave a raw obnoxious chuckle and Stuart furrowed a brow, he took out the quarter and felt a warm mushy texture, brown stained his fingertips. 

…

It was three in the afternoon the clouds started to clear a little, and the harsh tropical sunlight hit Stuart’s skin. Even though the weather was meant to give him a sense of happiness and tranquility, Stuart was mad, no, furious. His skin won’t tan, smoking never calms the nerves no matter how hard he tries, and...Two Dents? Two Dents, Two Dents, Two Dents. Sure, he could handle a few pokes and teases here and there, but calling him something regarding his accident, Stuart would have nothing about it. 

He tossed the chocolate nickel on the sand near the road and watched a seagull engulf it. 

“Accidents are supposed to happen.” Stuart muttered. “They are supposed to happen….argh.” He parked his bike on his porch and strolled in. 

The first thing that hit his nose was smell of fresh meat and butter. He noticed his aunt Nell moving her smooth hips slowly to the crooning of the saxophone on the radio. She stopped whistling and swaying upon hearing him enter the rickety cottage. “That wasn’t too long was it?” She moved with a beat on her feet as she handed Stuart a plate with a cold fresh ham sandwich, and a glass of milk.

“Too long.”

“Stuart….is everything ok?” Nell knew everything, she was like a clone of his mother, they both could understand when someone is particularly bothered, and they will do anything to soothe a troubled soul, they were both nurses of course.  
Were. Stuart shivered at that word. 

“I’m not going to deliver at the compound anymore. A-and I don’t care if I won’t get enough payment I….I don’t know why they think of me this way? I-I am a psychopath.” 

“Stu I know that….you will never not forgive the ones that torment you but….you have taken this position to support the family. It doesn’t matter what those….those disgusting blokes say it’s-“

“Family….” Stuart ran a finger through his blue hair and tucked it behind his ear. “It’s my families anniversary of-“

Nell raised her tanned wrinkled brow, wisps of hair swayed side to side from the pressure of the fan blowing. “You know it’s….today?”

Stuart sucked in a breath and bit his lip hard, he put his spidery fingers on his aunts and patted them. “I think it would be best to...remember then forget, it’s not th-that I will forget them, no, not ever!”

“I have been waiting for a year to show you something. And, I know you will never forget them, but Stu, the past will leave scars, the bad past at least, and it will be apart of your life, but the past can also leave freckles, do you understand? Freckles of tiny moments of happiness and prosperity.” His aunt sniffled and let go of his hands to swipe a wrinkled finger across her rosy cheek. “Argh, miss ‘em already. I know it’s hard Stu.” 

Stuart nibbled on a piece of his sandwich. He pondered for a moment before speaking. “I understand what you’re saying, that it will never leave this.” He tapped his head after setting the half eaten sandwich down. “And...I know I need to be optimistic, but all of these things that have happened to me-.”

“You couldn’t help it, you couldn’t save everyone Stu, things happen and they are supposed too, that’s how life is and-” 

Stuart lashed back in a whispered tone. “No it’s not! This is not life, life for a-a being isn’t supposed to be like this, Aunt Nell I have seen things no young bloke of my age should see, and in the time when I was seeing ‘things’ I have tried to stop many things and-and.” He placed his hands in his face and hiccuped slightly. “It wouldn’t stop! She told me to run and I-I refused at first but her voice….mum’s voice changed that last day of living in England, and it scared me Aunt Nell! It scared me! So I obeyed and then I never saw them again and there was smoke” He began to ramble while his aunt’s old eyes studied him. “And then I was blind, and then the smell of crushed pills and-and the stretcher-.” 

Nell paused with what she was doing and dashed over to his side of the table. She too, had entered a state of shock. After she took the young boy in she didn’t hear him speak one work about his late parents, possibly a sentence or two, but now it was all raining over her now, real, hard feelings were piled on her, and she expected this, she understood what grieving processes were and how they worked, but she knew from the bottom of her heart this wasn’t normal, this wasn’t how you should be grieving, this isn’t even how you should be living. 

Before moving to the states, she knew Stuart Harold Pot as someone who could pick up a pencil and write poem after poem, who could rhyme easily and create lyrics for an instrumental tune, who would run and run as fast as he can to reach his local bookshop, sitting in dusty abandoned corners with it’s equally, unique abandoned books, with a cigarette in his mouth, drinking in every word, every bit of its meaning and power. Stuart knew words were power, stories were power, he delivered and showed them daily of course. But he also used music, Nell could hear the notes of a piano traveling through the Pot’s household like smoke, curling around her ears, melting her soul. 

But now, no words, no books or led shavings on his desk. Stuart Harold Pot has changed, Stuart Harold Pot is dead and long gone by now, or so Nell thought, she remembers her last time in London, watching the nurses un-bandage his eyes, the smell of stale mint in the air, and the sound of a young boy’s sobs. No words, no smiles of glee and no midnights of sonata’s echoing in the halls.

What could Nell see now in those ink eye’s of his. From a strangers standpoint, pure blood, with a hint of red, someone broken and head in the air. She knew Stuart changed after the visit to the hospital, and she knew Oahu didn’t give him the satisfaction he needed, but it was the right thing to do, and Nell honestly thought she would rewind the clock, see those clear blue eyes under that sweep of blue hair, with that large smile. Nell still sees Stuart smile, with black holes of where his teeth should be, and she believed they were true and pure, but there was something inside her that made her think if her nephew wasn’t smiling regarding true contentedness, it seemed soulless, as if he was in a production, acting and showing the crowd that he is Stuart Pot, the eyeless boy with no teeth and a straight smile on his face daily. 

“It’s alright, it’s ok Stuart, I loved them too, I loved her too, I loved him too.” 

She felt his pale stick arms grip her sagging caramel ones. “I should have stayed. I should have stayed, I should have stayed, I should have stayed with everybody in.”

Nell shushed him, but she could hear small whimpers with: “The fire, and the blood, and my eyes….Americans...Shock...love forever...my eyes my eyes my eyes.” That is what all Nell could take in, and his voice got quieter and quieter, until all was life is a sigh from a boy with a broken brain.

…

Two hours slipped past, and Nell could see Stuart on the couch sleeping soundy. His Aunt sat at the small dinner table and held a manilla box, tapping her long beige nails in concentration. Not before long she heard stirring across the room, and a voice crack.

“Wh-what is it you wanted to show me.” 

Nell pursed her lips and swallowed. “Stuart-”

“I’m sorry Aunt Nell, I went too far and-” 

“I understand.” Nell muttered and stood up, caramel hands across her stomach and she walked towards him. “You can never go too far, Stu.”

“Of course I can. That wasn’t right of me. I’m, I-I’m-” He sniffed and his aunt kneeled against the sofa and gripped his hand, and Stuart began to sit up. “It won’t happen again Nell, you can have scars, but you can choose to ignore them.”

Nell felt a smile slip across her face and she sat next to him, she put a warm hand on his cheek and felt the cold stained tears on his face, she wiped them gingerly and hoisted the box on her lap. “Then you can focus on the freckles perhaps. I wanted to wait a year to show you this, I thought this was an appropriate time but I’m not sure if you can look through this-.”

“I can!” He chirped. 

Nell smirked and let out a happy sigh. “One step at a time then?” 

“One step at a time…” Stuart placed the box in his lap and took a deep breath. “Freckles freckles freckles..” He picked up a white nurses cap, stained with an unknown beige and dust particles erupted in the air. A melancholy “Oh” escaped his lips and Nell could see them quiver. “She…..she really was someone who would care for you forever.”

Nell flashed a small sorrowful smile. Rachel, her dear sister was someone she could count on, a woman with eyes of kindness and pills in her hands, gauze stuck to her fingers and bandages in her pockets. Soldiers wounds were fixed in shorts amount of time, many asked “how did you heal so fast, man?” and the warrior would state: “just bring ‘em to old Rachel, you are never near death with her!” 

Nell continued to watch Stuart pull out older memorabilias. Pictures, dust, coins and money, small sobs and smiles filled the air. They were getting towards the end after an hour, Nell presented Stuart with hot soup, which soothed his scratched throat from the past sobbing. He licked his lip as he put the last memorabilia down and looked down at the bottom. 

Nell sat silently and and blinked astonishingly. “Now...I don't remember that.” Stuart looked at her with his dark thick brow raised, his eyes then trailed to see what was in his hand. A letter, white and somewhat newly written, at least what was on the envelope. There were little to no stains of old, and the writing was quite extravagant, what was the strangest attribute of the letter was that Stuart knew this writing style was not of his parents.

He looked closely at the letter, and squinted mystifyingly at the commands written by what seems like an unknown stranger. 

Please deliver this letter to naval officer and sailor Murdoc Niccals.

850 Ticonderoga Street, Oahu Hawaii.

Stuart paused and hung his mouth open in bewilderment. “Nell...do you know a...a Murdoc Niccals?”

Nell took the letter warily from his grasp and raised a brow. “No...no nothing of that sort.”

“My family...had no connections with Oahu or the states hardly. This doesn’t make any sense.” Stuart bit his lip. “The address is to the Pearl Harbor...naval base.” Nell examined the letter while he talked. Her pepper eyebrows raised and then lowered.

“I have never known anyone from the last name of Niccals.”

After finding such a letter Stuart pondered for hours in his bed, sure, finding such heartwarming yet shattering memorabilia was something that also stayed in his mind, but apart from that, those words, and that regal, exquisite handwriting…

Murdoc Niccals.

That name was enthralling, peculiar, a name that could be used with a rumor or a whisper, someone to possibly cause trouble. So short and simple yet so complex and questionable. Stuart shivered at the thought about what he could possibly be getting into the next morning. 

…

Murdoc hated late afternoons, not because of the fine cold glass of beer clenched in his right palm, but the news, all types of news, good, bad, odd, old, it always followed a pattern, a pattern of conflict and negativity surrounding the most impossible, unexpected evil that could come out of the world and at this very time, this very moment, him and his poor sap self was stuck in the middle of it. The war to end all wars. At least...according to his homeland, that's what it was. Murdoc didn’t dare to go back to England, not just to stay away from his crippling old father, but his town, which was covered in shambles and bodies.

But maybe...that was the problem. Maybe he runs too far? He maybe stays away from things a little too much. 

But for now, every other sentence he hears in his life is centered around violence, like he has had enough in his life.

So there he sits, a small fan blowing his black bangs across his sweaty clammy forehead, droplets of beer splash on his stark white naval cap, his misshapen teeth growling at nearby conversations stating: “Rubbish rubbish Japan rubbish rubbish Churchill rubbish rubbish FDR rubbish rubbish damn Germans…”

Murdoc tried to stifle a groan after he heard the radio being switched on, he stopped his annoying gestures by taking an extended swig of beer, letting it rush down his throat smoothly, he groaned with content and he set the long empty glass down on the glossy bar counter. He motioned rudely to have it filled once again...for what...the third time?

The momentous tone of the radio host echoed loudly into Murdoc’s ears and he felt his own nose scrunch and curl. He could hear the report loudly stating: Good Afternoon, at this hour we have received a special report that some of the names involved in the Reuben James incident have been released. Charlie Appleton...Glendon Appleton...John Francis Bauer...George Beasley...

The exceedingly irritating crackling narration of the radio was interrupted by a gruffier voice which throat was cleared. “Hey mudman, you feelin’ alright?”

Murdoc turned in his seat to see him comrade, Al, hunched over, his clean shaven face turned to him, his eyes were glowing with kindness, it almost made Murdoc want to hurl. “I would if you would get off my shit.” He fussed and spittled slightly on the ground, tired brown eyes locked on Al’s as he did so.

“Listen Mud I-I know what happened-” Al spoke and Murdoc objectified. 

“And did I ask you to mention it?” Murdoc raised a bushy brow, then turned to his now refilled glass of beer and pounded the lot down his scruffy throat. 

“We mention a lot of things here pal, we stick together don’t we, listen..my wife she…” Al could completely notice Murdoc rolling his eyes over his mattered bangs, but he kept going. “She had a miscarriage, and look! I’m sharing that with you! Heartbreaking, right? I can’t sleep Mud.” Al took a short sip and continued his blabbering. “I believe-.” His voice got softer. “I believe you are safe telling me about your brother.” 

“Hm…” Murdoc clicked his tongue as he already finished his third glass. “It’s over now, mate lived a saaad life and well, it wouldn’t make the story sugarcoated if I gave his brassy secrets away now would it. It's done now mate.” He commanded the bar man for another drink. “Oh, and this time, add a splash of rum? That would be lovely, thank you.”

“We all have secrets.” Al spoke up and Murdoc turned with a disorientated expression. “I am sure he was a good brother, Murdoc, you just...you can just talk to me okay? About anything. Eh, say, you should probably come to one of our saturday ‘talks’, good food, laughs, honestly I never see you at any meetings or get togethers, we don’t want you alone you know..” 

“I’m not alone, mate.” He told his American friend. “I am never alone, as long as I’ve got this.” He pointed a long tanned finger at his fourth drink and proceeded to guzzle until he reached the bottom. 

“Yeah I...erm...I will just be thinking about you then…” Al finished his first beer and patted his ‘friend’s’ shoulder. “Prayers and condolences...I’ll uh...see you back on deck later..” Murdoc only responded with a gruff “Hrm.” 

After Al’s figure disappeared into the rambling pool of customers, Murdoc turned his chair to view the crowd, licking his dry lips. Everywhere he looked, little white caps with a sense of peace and heaven popped around the bar, sure to make every woman swoon. Sailors were well respected around these parts, way better than England, that least there was one thing Murdoc appreciated, respect. 

Murdoc continued to watch his ‘comrades’ giggle and snort, some were paying respects with the recent radio report, and others cuddled up to their loved ones, swaying and laughing, children’s feet patted against the bar floor to run into their fathers arms. Over the chatter of the bar, Murdoc’s eyes almost bugged out of his head as a crack voice asked. 

“Uh...is there anyone around here named Murdoc Niccals?”

Murdoc pushed air through his nose shut his eyes, his head cocked to the side as he let out a soft and annoyed moan. He heard the chatter of the bar slow down and dissipate, and some sailors and bartenders heads turned to see a young powder blue headed boy standing awkwardly with a crisp letter in his fidgety hands. After a long pause, Murdoc heard someone point the boy in his direction. 

“Oh...no.” He growled under his breath, it hitched as the young paperboy began to speak. 

“Wait….there is no possible way.” The boy stuttered

Murdoc sighed as softly as he could and he moved in his seat to face the most annoying boy he has ever seen in his life. “Two dents.” He greeted him with a toothy smile, and the stench of rotten rum and alcohol on his breath. 

Stuart narrowed his eyes and he pressed his lips together. “I believe y-you owe me a quarter….”

“Hrmmmm.” Murdoc hummed in a highly pitched and irritating tone. Out of the corner of his bloodshot eyes he saw another rum mixed beer slide over to him. He turned to the bartender and his drink. “You know me well, Vern.” He gave a sinister chuckle before taking a long sip, while Stuart awkwardly stood in the same section of the bar, hands to his side, and ebony eyes piercing him. “Yeah, ahhhh mate, sorry I just had to treat myself to a little something something, to get my mind off...stocking bullets and rifles and such, plus the salt water?” He took another swig of beer and sighed once it rushed down his throat. “....salt and shit gets in your head, mrrrgh, migraines and such-”

“I have a letter for you!” Stuart interrupted and held it out abruptly. 

Murdoc’s lip twisted confusingly and his dirt caked hands gingerly took it from the lad, he turned the clean white paper to himself and his eyes expanded, and squinted, and moved all over until he looked back up at Stuart with puzzled dark eyes, his cocked thick brow showing underneath his greasy bangs. “Th’ hell is Gorenstein? I don’t know a Gorenstein, let alone someone from Crawley.”

“It’s...kind of a long story.” Stuart mumbled and he crossed his arms lubberly.

The sailor sighed loudly and chewed his lower lip as he pulled a cigarette box from his pocket, he stuck one in his mouth and struggled to find his lighter. “Christ, you don’t know how much I despise that sentence…” Stuart traced his tongue over his lip and stared at the wooden ground. Murdoc retrieved his lighter and began to light his cigarette before saying. “Sit down, sit down.” 

Stuart took his seat and Murdoc put the letter down on the bar table. The young brit watched as droplets of alcohol oozed into the blank envelope. “Alright, tell Uncle Murdoc now, who is this Gorenstein?”

“Well bear with me please...this might be a bit confusing. Y-you must understand my mother and father’s death was a year ago, and-” 

“Listen, you can tell a sanatorium employee to deal with all that rubbish-”

Stuart’s finger rubbed against his lips. “No! No you don’t understand. I was...searching through their belongings and...something peculiar surfaced. A-a letter from my home, my HOUSE! Addressed to you….by Gorenstein. I do not know a Gorenstein either, to be incredibly honest, I didn’t even know your name until now!”

Murdoc blinked and snatched the letter back up again, it was now covered with beer blotches. “Don’t start mucking around, mate. You’ll get yourself into some trouble.”

“But, but!” Stuart raised his shaking hands. “How do two people from the same origin country, the same current residence intertwine?”

“It was possibly a mistake.” Murdoc shrugged dramatically and shoved the now spoiled envelope in his back pocket. “Honestly you can get lost when you are done kicking me around a bit.” 

“I would never lie to anyone!” Pot shouted a little too loud and Murdoc leaned back in his chair. Parts of the bar caught the commotion and fell silent for a short time. “You have to believe me…” Murdoc fell silent, his eyes now lowered darkly, and the cigarette smoke coated the side of his face and hair, Stuart tensed like an anxious mouse facing a ferocious feline. “I look at you and...well from what I know is that you don’t really appreciate others..a-and you look like you are hiding things, things that...maybe I shouldn’t know but maybe someone in the world should. Are you really, truly sure you do not know one from the name of Gorenstein.” Murdoc was still silent, eyes continued to observe him like an evil sea serpent, ready to coil Stuart’s nimble body and keep him hostage forever. 

“A...A Rachel Pot...A David Pot?” As Stuart slipped those names off his tongue he felt a bitter sensation inside, outside, all over.

The cynical sailor finally spoke, this time not as haughty as his usual tone. “I never caught your name back there. What do they call you, mate?”

“S-Stuart Pot.” 

Murdoc hummed and pulled his cigarette from his mouth and slowly shot an odious plume of mist into the air. “Like Stu-Pot?”

“No! S-stop calling me those names.” Stuart blurted. “I don’t like it. You’re not the only one who has done that to me.”

“Mate, take it easy for once, I give everyone something, so I can remember them my way, my own name for you. Alright,” He settled farther into the chair and sighed loudly. “If you don’t like thooose….hm oh dear oh dear you are something else, you should have a name that ‘sticks’ out!” He put his hands up and laughed, then settled back down and concentrated, his eyes, moving to examine Stuart, as if he were a piece of art. “Ladies...and Gentlemen….I give you…” He drawed out the last word before snapping his fingers and pointed at the paperboy, shouting, “2D!”

Stuart knitted his dark brows together and his mouth hung open. “I-it’s like eurm….two dents but...more exotic...mrmm nice.”

“That is still insulting, Murdoc.”

“Then how about faceache?”

“...2D is nice.”

Murdoc gave another haughty laugh before arising from his seat. “Wait!” Stuart called as the sailor walked away, licking his fingers to wipe the rum stains from his white turtleneck. “You haven’t opened the letter! Haven’t you been paying attention to what I have been saying?”

“I promise I will read it mate! If anything I believe your story is captivating, it’s like uhhh...it’s like uhhh.” He slurred and stumbled, he was halfway out of the bar. “A schizophrenic forest! Dark envelopes, and once you’re outta there, the light is coming! I can see you have good things going for you!”

“But the letter!” Stuart hollered back and Murdoc plainly ignored, stumbling into a sailor, belching and apologizing with “Sorry Ma’am!” 

He grumbled and turned to face where the sailor sat only thirty seconds ago, he noticed a glass of dark beer was across from Murdoc’s seat and Stuart eyed it with confusion. 

“That was from him.” The bartender told Stuart. “He thought you would need it.” 

Stuart took the glass immediately and downed it as quickly as possible. By the time he reached the end a metal tang entered his mouth, and he began to cough, before he knew it, a metal tang touched his tongue and he began to cough, and a shiny quarter landed in his palm.

…

“Mr Niccals,” Murdoc shuddered at the tone. “we need to talk.”

‘We need to talk.’ He hated that sentence. He turned from screwing on nuts and bolts on one of the torpedoes and stood up slowly, cracking his joints noisily. 

Colonel Mccormick folded his arms tightly, Murdoc could hear his uniform crackle under the pressure. “I believe this is the 5th time I have seen you under the influence.” His raspy voice lowered into a hush. Murdoc hummed and wiped oil from his hands on his already dirty trousers.

“Well, mate, in this day and time? I wouldn’t want to be doing anything but that, it’s the end of the world as we know it!” He spread his hands out and chuckled. “Might as well be living the best I can right now.” 

“This doesn’t excuse you….listen,” General licked his lips, bit them and sucked in a breath. “You do not have a...partner correct?”

“Birds are overrated, I’ve had my fair share but...nothing pleases me as much as-“ He stumbled and grabbed onto a railing. “Haw haw, ah dear, waves are uh...tall today.” 

“Murdoc, it is clear outside, no wind. You are drunk.”

“Ah, right.” He grumbled and turned back, stumbling and struggling to sit on his small wooden seat, ready to dig his hands in more ebony sludge, and finish what he started.

“I haven’t finished!” Colonel McCormick stomped after him and gripped his collar, turning him to face his fiery crystal eyes. “You get your ass sober do you hear me? You have no job, and no family...this is your family now. And in this family, we don’t expect any drunks.” His eyes shifted to the crash and clutter of the torpedo, parts and pieces slid across the deck and slammed into railings, nuts and bolts painted the floors.

“You rely on your family? Don’t you?”

Murdoc tensed at the Colonels touch, his hands were rough, too rough, and too familiar. His eyes went from its lazy glaze to fiery anger. “Let go of my fucking neck!” He swished and the Colonel’s hand broke off.

Colonel McCormick, being to sensible man he is, opened and closed his mouth with shock. He watched as Murdoc struggled to pick up the nuts and bolts, cursing under his breath and stumbling over the inky deck. The Colonel pursed his lip and then proceeded to stomp towards the cabins, opening the creeping door to see a young sailor in front of him, focusing on his crossword puzzle.

“Al Mcadam?”

The sailor looked upwards with a shiny green gaze, he stood up abruptly and saluted stiffly. “Sir!”

“Sit down...its alright...it’s just me, George, just call me George for now.”

Al didn’t say one thing and made room for the Colonel to sit on his stiff bunk bed, he tossed his crossword to the side and sat with his back arched, and his hands in his lap. “You have done nothing wrong.” George said. “I just wish to ask you some questions.” He sucked in a breath and scratched the little blonde whiskers across his chin. “Does Murdoc Niccals have a family?”

“I kn-know a lot about him, sir.” Al confessed and squeezed his lips together. “But I don’t know everything. He had a brother who lost his life on the Reuben James, I don’t know much about his mother or father but...I’ve heard and seen some things that could lead to the fact that he was...how do I say it…treated miserably as a child. Assaulted in many ways. In my past studies regarding psychology, he seems to have a never exploding bomb in him, things bother him and-“

“And when I grabbed him, he was in pain.” Colonel George analyzed and shuddered. “I don’t want to pressure you into knowing everything about his life, but I have no damn clue on why he joined us, this clearly isn’t a situation he should be in in this time in his life.”

“He is 45, sir.”

“Maybe not ever in his life….”

Mcadam and Mccormick fell into the void of silence until George parted his lips, his voice stuttered before he came up with a statement. “This is his only occupation, I believe. Has he told you anything about his most recent?”

“He used to be a musician. He mostly played in bars and he formed a few groups every year, it’s like he couldn’t stick with one. He used most of it for alcohol, self pleasures, God only knows what he used the rest for.”

“And his living arrangements?” 

“Very small sir, he recently told me he lives downtown, in a small shack near the water.”

George hummed and put the side of his index to his lips. “You understand that I want to accept all the men in the world. But Niccals? This isn’t right.”

Al only blinked and turned his head to Murdoc’s bunk. He’s only known the brit for at least 2 months, but he knew so much, almost most of his life. Murdoc Niccals was an enigma to him, a mystery, a phycotic ghost, his past revealed, but not enough. Al thinks he knows all, but no, there is more to this man than meets the eye, and he knows that he is hiding many things, and lying about many things.

Al opened his mouth. “The thing is, sir, Niccals is someone who...can’t be tamed, he isn’t like the other men here and-“

“Yes I know, he’s a brit, he probably has to deal with culture shock.”

“No, sir! He is someone who...the world doesn’t talk about, a sad man sir...he is a sad man.”

Sad indeed. Al knew Murdoc was, and out of all the feelings he possesses, he never shows that one in particular. But he knew it, Al knew exactly what Murdoc was, and what Murdoc wasn’t, without even knowing his ‘whole’ story.

“Well I can see that!” George huffed and he lowered his old wrinkled eyelids. “I try to give him discipline, as I do to all of the other brothers, but….” He paused and Al watched the colonel’s wheels begin to turn. “Sanitorium.” George turned slowly to gaze into Al’s saucer shaped eyes.

“But...sir I don’t know I-I...keeping Niccals in solitary confinement wouldn’t particularly be effective for his sake! The man needs to be….to be respected.” 

“If a man asks for respect he will never receive what he wants. By my orders I want you to file an appointment, and stay. The closest hospital is on the outskirts of the harbor. Get it done. On my orders, Mcadam.”

As Al put his hands in a knot and pressed them up to his chapped lips, the colonel took his leave. 

…

Murdoc stumbled into the corridors, shirtless and slumping, grumbling curses and leaning on walls. It’s around this usual time he regrets drinking in the mid afternoon. 

“Arg, my sodding head!”

Al decided that he was going to ignore Murdoc’s complaints, he swallowed a ball of ice down his throat and he grew slightly pale. He couldn’t bare the thought of a friend...a man...being treated in such a place. His mind began to enter a trance. A friend? Was that how Al really saw his bunk mate? To reveal that he cares for Murdoc would give him ugly looks from the other American sailors. But, something in Al’s mind changed, he remembers the night it twisted and ached with feeling sentimentality towards the tale of Murdoc Niccals.

‘Yeah well…’ He started slowly and idly. ‘My father was a sodding fool. A man living in a cloud of idiocy with birds on his lap and rum on his lips. Y’know my head always bled, he used to um….smash it and….well y’know maybe I needed that shit cause I was running away too much.’ Al just sat in silence, he remembers the sounds, taste and smell of that day. It was dark and he remembers seeing Murdoc’s gloaming eyes, downcast and bagged, a cigarette hung on his lower lip, it hung out and he could see it wobble partially, but not too much. He knew this was Murdoc Niccals, the man to never cry, the man to never show or present. Though the only presentation he provides is a soul and atman of pure loathing and selfishness. ‘Smashing, throwing, and y’know….I felt snowflakes, a lot of snowflakes.’ Al paused and asked why, confused at the vaguely spoken statement. ‘I was left out mostly during the blasted winter times in Stoke On Trent, the place is a bloody hole of despair I can tell you that for nothing. Fucker used to throw me out, lock the door and...I remember pounding until my hands were gushed with red, heh, that taught me something.’ Al asked why again. 

‘Because I am a snowflake. I-I saw them as things that pile on one another, that might melt away but they can build up if they are in the right temperature. The flakes only melted when I was on the ground, when my head was bruised and my chest...oooh my chest, that was a good blow that night, dad really got me that time mmmm yes. And in the air, standing on the ground? Well that’s when it built up, I remember my first gig with the boys, at the local burlesque, birds flocked and whiskey brewed. And the noise aaaah the noise, my fingers were bleeding from the strings on El Diablo but….I-I didn’t care y’know? Wonderful music just wonderful.’ He took a drag of the cig and crushed it against the metallic side of his bunk bed. Al wanted to protest and tell him that wasn’t allowed in the corridors but Murdoc sighed and leaned back on the rickety bed, his body sunk as he sighed profusely. 

It was just enough information to send icicles drifting down Al’s spine. The man was abused, tortured and abandoned. There was more to the story than just this, Al knew the brain of Murdoc was something like a labyrinth, you had to search and search, use keys and knickknacks to enter door after door. The end of the labyrinth would be the truth, a sliver of light to blind anyone who views the truth of him. And that was something Al wished to see. 

But today, Murdoc was locked up in his cognitive cage, groaning and complaining about his throbbing head. Al watched as he slowly bent down with a sigh and pulled out an envelope, crumpled and bent, Murdoc twirled it with his long veiny fingers.

“Say,” Al finally spoke, with a warm tone. “what’s that you have there?”

Murdoc looked up, his rosy sclera glowed. “A bloke gave it to me, that’s all. It’s probably a letter from someone I owe a pound or two back in Stoke.” 

Al nodded and stood up in a flash, changing out of his clothes and into his bedtime attire. Murdoc’s eyes shifted to the front of the letter, and his fingers shook as he used his nail to cut the top portion.

It smelled of sage and smoke, something Murdoc furrowed his brow at. He took his shivering fingers and calmly slipped the folded paper out of the envelope. The paper was new and fresh too, as if it was just written. He could feel Al’s eyes on him in the background as he unfolded the letter. 

The writing was certainly eccentric and neat. Too neat. Murdoc knew no one with this particular penmanship. He began to read.

Mr Niccals,

I inquire you to pay attention. We are in desperate times now, this you know, and I believe once you are finished reading this you will follow and obey my plea. 

The boy, he has the eyes as dark as a cave, and the broken smile of sunshine. You may not understand yet but he is the token for your escape. Your black eyed god. 

Murdoc’s lips twisted. “What in the bloody-“ He paused once Al cocked his head towards him, he sniffed and turned his eyes back to the letter.

I require you to travel to Crawley, important business should be met there. The god will be in your company luckily, and you will see things. I am not quite sure what you will see but you must understand that you must learn. Isn’t that what men...humans do? We learn, and if we don’t learn we crumble, and we can’t pick ourselves back up. We can’t see what is inside one another, we would be trapped in our own plush room, tied in imaginary cloth, a straight jacket of misunderstandment and mistakes. Knowledge and recouping is an art, Mr Niccals, I wish for you to break those threads.

Please attend the train to Crawley, West Sussex, after your departure from the islands. Your god will direct you afterwards, to Green Dr, you will find a small apartment, head to room 8. All of your necessities will be found in this envelope. 

And in addition, Mr Niccals. I most undoubtedly believe you will meet boys, but not like any ordinary boys, boys who can change things, they can change brains of course, with their words and actions. I believe boys have something no other human being can have, the power to change. Now I am not saying young women can’t do that, you will meet those also. But you were once a young boy, Mr Niccals, and I believe that every little boy has a place in a heart, someone’s heart, if possible, take in a boy, but not just any boy, one living in your heart.

I wish you safe travels,

Gorenstein.

Murdoc’s lip began to shake, he bit it hard enough to stop and he lowered the paper on his stomach. 

Al paused from slipping his night shirt on. “Murdoc….hey...are you alr-“

“Move!” Murdoc bolted from the bed and didn’t even bother to put a shirt on. He continued to dash through the compound, ignoring the yelling of his comrade Al in the distance. 

His head pounded, sweat glistened his brow and his mind raced with such brute speed. This was absolutely rubbish, it had to be. This was just some joke, a tease Stuart Pot probably wrote for revenge. Sure, Murdoc teased him with that fake quarter but honestly? The kid was destined to have his face knocked out, and that’s what Murdoc had to do. He was sort of a fool, Murdoc’s inner trickster got the best of him, of course he was going to play around with him, it’s his nature. But this was uncalled for, absolutely uncalled for. 

Once he exited the compound, he raced through evening markets and fluorescent lighted streets, receiving peculiar looks from the civilians. Murdoc would have to admit if he saw a shirtless man with skinny black pants grunting with rage and racing down the street he would wonder what he was on this time. 

His heels skidded to a halt as he flung open a bakery’s door, some of the bells perched on top cluttered to the ground because of the forceful opening. “Does anyone know a Stuart Pot?!” He growled, several more peculiar looks followed. An older woman spoke up. 

“The paperboy? With the blue hair?”

“Yes! Yes, dammit where is he?!” Several more people looked up in shock and confusion due to his angry remarks. 

“A-around the outskirts of town I believe, w-with the blue shingles, they stand out, you can’t miss it, take a left from this street, you will find a sandy backroad, and-“ The older woman couldn’t finish, when the chimes of the door slammed against the wall, and Murdoc continued to dash down the street. 

Once he squeezed his way through the evening crowd, he reached the back road the woman mentioned, he could already feel his legs wobble and sweat. He whistled through his nose as he made one final push through the small trail, pushing back large palm leaves and hibiscus blossoms, feeling the aggressive punctures of the flowery thorns.

He cursed as he pushed himself out of the lush track and into a smaller, quainter neighborhood, filled with soft grass, lanterns illuminating like delicate stars on the residents decks. Murdoc slowed and caught his breath, and wiped his forehead. 

The neighborhood was quieter than the bustling town, he could only hear the call of an owl, and a man, at least 50 feet away from him, strumming a ukulele and moaning a tune. 

Murdoc felt his heart fall back into place. This area was nothing like where he lives, small and dainty, with a sort of elegance and serenity surrounding him. This felt like a tropical haven, yet it was so simple and dare he say….homey. 

He brushed the small thorns off his bare chest and started to walk around, bluntly ignoring the ukulele player, who stopped for at least a millisecond when strumming, then carried on as Murdoc passed his house. 

It was at least a few houses Murdoc passed until he noticed the familiar blue shingles the old woman mentioned. He instantly remembered the letter, and all of the tranquility left him, as he dashed to the front porch of the cottage like house.

The door was rickety and old, but Murdoc didn’t care the state it was in, he wrapped loudly, his fist triggering the class to shake and shudder. It took him at least 30 seconds of pounding until a small, tanned lady answered.

Murdoc’s mouth turned into a large frown as the woman with gentle eyes scrunched in curiosity. “Mr,” she began. “may I uh, help you-“. 

Murdoc pushed the older woman against the wall and stomped into the house. It was small, small enough to search and find 2D in seconds. “Where is he?!” Murdoc yelled and the woman’s eyes grew three times their size. She was speechless. He huffed and entered a room connected to the kitchen, it was a soft cream color, with an old grandfather clock, and old memorabilia. It took a while to notice the lanky figure of Stuart Pot standing off the couch, trembling at the sight of him. Murdoc trudged towards him, with the letter and envelope clenched in one hand. “Is this a bloody joke to you-?!” 

Before he could finish his last sentence, he hear a mechanical snap. Murdoc turned slowly to see the older woman holding a hunting rifle, the barrel pointed at his nose. “Don’t you dare come at him, whoever you are, get out of my house-“ 

“Nell! It’s alright!” 2D shouted but Nell cocked the gun again. “Aunt Nell no! No don’t shoot!” He trudged over to his aunt and grabbed her short chubby shoulders. “Please you have to believe me when I say this….this is Murdoc Niccals, the man who received the letter.”

“The one in your mother’s box?” Nell asked with astonishment. She lowered her weapon and glared into Murdoc’s fuming eyes. 

“Oh, right, and you are going along with your...nephew’s little tricks? Who in hell wrote this? Telling me to go to Crawley and-“

“Crawley….” 2D asked quietly. “That’s where I was born, where I was raised. What else did it say, may I see it?” 

“You are positive you two don’t know anything about this? I have been scammed, tricked before, I won’t put up with any fucking around do you hear me?” 

Nell spoke up. “You didn’t have to barge into my house, and practically damage my door more than it normally is.”

Stuart could feel the tension rising and interrupted, his breath sharpened. “May I see that?” He reached for Murdoc’s hands, which twitched when he made sudden contact with them to take the letter. Stuart held the crumpled paper in his hands, scanning quickly, his aunt, who set the weapon down already, looked over his shoulder to read. “Black eyed god? What? Who...who is this writing.”

“You tell me.” Murdoc crossed his arms and scowled. 

“Green Dr, room 8. I used to visit you there on holidays.”  
Nell gasped and looked up at her nephew, who’s dark eyes were still fixated on the note, his expression shocked and fearful. 

“My home, my old home. N-nothing is there, everything in my home was cleaned out after…...uh...why is this person telling me to go back. And what do they mean by desperate times? Mr Niccals…..they know where we live, they know about my parents and they know about my life….we could all get hurt.” 

“All necessities found in the envelope.” Nell repeated from the letter, her eyes shifted to Murdoc and quickly focused on his hand. She dashed to grab it and pulled it out, opening the cut wider to feel the jingle of keys and small slips of paper flutter to the floor. 

In her hands she held two round trip tickets to London, England by plane, then tickets to Crawley by train, all payed. Silence filled the room as the trio stood in a circle, the two men eyeing the tickets and key with the letter 8 on it. 

“Nell, I believe I should g-“

“No!” His aunt interrupted and shook her head. “This is a scam, all of our lives our in danger now, someone knows us, they are after us.” 

“I could be missing something!” 2D argued. “We might get hurt but…we cannot let these tickets go to waste. Aunt Nell, somebody put this letter in here for a reason, and more of these must be in my...in my old home...Crawley. I cannot let this slip. I must go.”

“With him?!” Nell clenched her teeth and held her hand out of Murdoc, who’s scowl never changed. 

“Believe me, this is the last thing I want to do. But, something is after me too, sadly, when is anything not.” Murdoc grumbled, his eyelids lowered in annoyance. 

“And what about the boy? What do they mean by boys?” 2D cocked a brow. 

“Asking me to take in a boy I guess. What do I look like a father?” Murdoc grunted. “How in hell can someone, hidden under a last name know exactly where we live, where we work, and how we share the same ethnicity. We are practically the only Brits in the whole damn state!”

“This was sent here for a reason….” 2D muttered, then looked at her. “Boys….childhood….seeing things. The person says we will see things.” 

Murdoc scoffed and cocked his head to the side. “Well I have seen a lot of things in my lifetime, I’m sure none of these will surprise me.” 

Nell interrupted with a worried tone. “The tickets….leave tomorrow.”

Murdoc stopped snickering and looked upwards. “Pardon?”

“You….must be leaving tomorrow then.” Murdoc could see that he was the last person Aunt Nell wants with her nephew. Her eyes slanted with a small flame of rage and frustration. “The tickets say so….here.”

“Aunt Nell are you sure-“

“If this is what your heart is telling you, I believe that the heart is more powerful than the brain. Overpowerment can me mistakes though, hearts can make mistakes the brain cannot. I trust you with your feelings though. If you would like to go….go Stuart.”

Stuart Pot smiled sadly and gripped his aunts small hands. “I promise you I will return safely, while I don’t know this person….I feel as if they call to me...someone who knows me and I don’t know them…. and this could be something life changing or life destroying. I….appreciate your support, Nell.” He hugged his aunt, blue curls bowing down for his height was larger than she was.

“Oh lovely, lovely, lovely.” Murdoc groaned slightly and placed his hands on his hips. “Butterflies and kittens everywhere. Now, I appreciate your time…” The sailor moved to the side of the room and eyed the shotgun. “But I must be taking my leave, I will be there, 6 AM sharp, tomorrow. Plane leaves at 7, right….” He stumbled out the door, shivering slightly at the cold air that hit his shirtless chest. “Lady, gentleman? We have a boy to catch.” He bared his yellow teeth and chuckled. “Ciao caio.” 

The smile left his face as he turned. And the remnants of childhood entered his mind. Everything shattered in his life at such a young age, and the note made him worry for what was about to come. Was this a test? The only tests Murdoc could take were ones of courage, of course most of those lead to black eyes in the bars. But this was different. He groaned as the words of the letter turned in his head. He stumbled down the streets, his mind repeating over and over again:

But you were once a young boy, Mr Niccals, and I believe that every little boy has a place in a heart, someone’s heart, if possible, take in a boy, but not just any boy, one living in your heart.


	2. Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions of rape/non con

Murdoc stared blankly at the small piece of paper in his hands, reading: ‘exempted due to abusing the use of alcohol/ disrespect to comrades.’ He growled and shoved it in his trouser pocket. His eyes moved to his empty drink, sitting in the cup holder next to him.

The plane set to arrive in London had only taken off moments ago and he was already flat out drunk. 

“Why,” Murdoc growled, he could feel 2D jump in his seat. “are the rum glasses so small, don’t they know there are some people who can’t take being up” He pointed upwards. “there for so long? Mrrrrgh bloody-“

“You’re afraid of heights?” Stuart looked from the plane window to Murdoc, who hung his head and pursed his lips. 

“They say…that if you have the right amount of alcoholic intake you are sure to have your fear of heights disappear.” Murdoc twisted his empty glass around, his finger scraping against it. “It hasn’t kicked in yet.” He ignored Stuart and turned to his left, signaling a stewardess. “Ah love, could you do me a favor and refill this for me.”

“Sir, I believe that this will be your fifth drink, our policy is to not over serve our alcohol. I am so sorry.” 

Murdoc slumped back in his seat, with a visible pout on his mouth. 

“I-I do believe that you can use something else to cure it.” Stuart spoke. 

This was going to be a long trip. No rum. And…why was 2D’s voice getting so annoying suddenly? “Like what?” Murdoc growled, catching a glimpse of the stewardess’ bum and giving a small smirk. His consciousness was brought back to 2D as he began to ramble.

“Well of course you can seek therapy, honestly the blokes will listen to you, they help tons, loads! Of course there are other types of therapy, I’m not sure if shock would work for you.”

“What do you mean ‘me’? How do you know about all this?”

Stuart fell silent. He put a lanky finger up to his lips to chew on it slightly. 

“You know there is a lot I don’t know about you, yet you know more about me.”

“Well….I believe you are more easy to figure out…”

“You’re no odder than me, pal.” 2D flinched at Murdoc’s words. “So….why the hair? Are you part time at the circus?”

“Will you stop kidding? No.” 2D proceeded to gaze out the window, admiring the blue sky spread as far as the eye can see. “I….well it was strange. It changed ever since the death of my parents. I don’t know why, Nell sent me to several hospitals for investigation, they still haven’t figured out why it changed to blue after I lost them. Stress?” 

“You bloody git. You are not joking!” Murdoc let out a howl, loud enough to give the entire plane his attention. “How is that even possible? To grow back bloody blue?You just keep surprising me, Dents!”

“I thought we settled on 2D?”

“I’m unpredictable, deal with that.” Murdoc smirked and laid an elbow on his seat. “Say uhhh, how about the eyes then?”

2D’s heartfelt face turned stark cold and pale. Murdoc lifted his elbow and his brows scrunched. “Er...Dents.”

“I’d rather not talk about it right now.” His head moved towards the window again, taking in the view, fluffy clouds began to take up the atmosphere.

“2D….”

“I said no, please.” He argued back softly, turning to slit his eyes at Murdoc, then settled back in his previous position. Murdoc bit his lip in frustration and turned back to see the stewardess handing a passenger a drink in front of him. He reached towards the cart and grabbed a shiny new full bottle of rum, tucking it behind his jacket.

“I have a few ideas of where or how you’ve got it….you don’t have to tell but….hey like the letter said, we will see things, know things, this is a journey, whatever the hell that means. We best might need to get to know each other more. I’m stuck with you. I’m stuck with all of this mystery shit.”

Stuart fell silent, Murdoc could only see his shoulders raise up and down, his suspenders cracking at each breath. He sighed and watched the stewardess disappear through the skinny hall of the plane. He popped the cork from the rum bottle and took a long swig.

Murdoc decided it was best to stay silent for the rest of the trip. The dewey blue sky turned to red, hours ticked on, and the rum was gone. 2D, who continued to stare out the window, began to slump and doze off. 

The sunlight burned Murdoc’s eyes as he looked to see his sleeping traveling mate. He certainly was an odd boy, his hair slicked back, bright blue mixed well with the bright crimson sky behind him. Azure lashes fluttered at him, and the small sound of snoring rumbled from his nose. 

He studied the area more and looked past 2D and noticed a small notebook perched on the side of his seat, with a plain black pen. It had a plain, clean navy blue cover, with a very neat white pages, and a golden bookmark stuck slightly in the middle of the papers. Murdoc’s hands twitched and curiosity got the best of him. He reached for the book, swiping it quickly away from Stuart, and cracked it open. 

The writing wasn’t all that neat, parts and pieces of music notes scattered across the milky white sheets, and some poetic lyrics. Murdoc began to read some.

Windmill, Windmill for the land. 

Love Forever, Love Is Free.

Is Everybody In?

Well, You Can’t Get What You Want, But You Can Get Me.

My Little Dream, Working The Machine.

Murdoc grumbled in confusion as he read them, the boy was a musician. He wasn’t sure what instruments he mastered, though he noticed the notes were written in treble clef, possibly a guitar, or a piano. Murdoc began to hum some of the notes. He wasn’t so familiar in these sets of notes but he did realize the kid’s music styles were extremely catchy, it could even sell. Murdoc had no affiliation with those of Ella Fitzgerald or Perry Como, but the combination of jazz and acoustic was very creative, he had to tell him that. Though, in sudden fear, he shut the notebook and put his head down, pretending the analyze the empty bottle of rum, listening to Stuart struggle to wake up. The sky began to darken slightly, the blue boy’s eyes matched with the night, twinkling with sleepiness.

“Nightmare?” Murdoc grumbled. His fingernails trailed across the glass of the bottle.

“Kind of…” Stuart half whispered. “The bumps in the clouds are quite frustrating. They keep waking me up.

“Oh-uh-yeah.” Murdoc nodded and put his bottle down and under his black peacoat. He turned to him and his lip twisted. “Say, are you a musician?”

He could see 2D’s eyes lower towards the notebook then back up at Murdoc’s imitating grey eyes. “Why do you ask.”

He cocked his head and chuckled. “I know one when I see one. Calloused hands, very long fingers, useful for stretches against the frets of a guitar or bass.”

“So….you are one? Since you know all of this?” Stuart asked and Murdoc smirked and nodded slightly. 

“I’ve played around, decided to quit a year before I joined my navy boys. But-eeeeehh well, y’know what’s funny, last night was...my last day.”

“Is that what your paper was telling you? The one you held in your hand a few hours ago, that today was your last day?”

Murdoc chewed on his mouth and set his hands in his lap. “So guitar or bass?”

2D caught his signal and cleared his throat, stuttering. “Well I uh-uh….guitar.”

“Dammit, I thought I found another one.”

“Another one, a bass? You played bass?”

“Murdoc Niccals.” He chuckled and raised his hands as if he was greeting an imaginary crowd. “The bassist of the Burning Sensations!” 

“That’s what you were called? I-I like it.” 2D gave a toothy grin. 

“Yeah well the rest of them were jackasses. Wouldn’t cooperate. We split up about 5 years ago, that’s when kristallnacht began yeah? When the third reich rose?” Murdoc breathed in and out, making a loud signing vibration, Stuart could smell the alcohol in his breath. “Ever since that, the world is slowly crashing down on me, on everyone. And now I have to see what this bloody psychotic letter is telling me and you, as if I need anymore trouble.”

“We could try and look on the bright-“ 2D started and Murdoc interrupted with another sigh. 

“Oh you are one of those folks aren’t you? Always the ones that think the world is a big ball of glitter and honey, immature...scumbags….” Murdoc then proceeded to make grotesque, intransalable mumbles and grunts.

“It never hurts you know, to feel good every once and awhile.” 2D chirped and looked over Murdoc’s bony shoulder, who cowered in his seat in annoyance. “We will meet people, that’s what the letter says, people make me feel good.”

“Feel good….” Murdoc mumbled. “Well I don’t need people, I’ve met too many in my lifetime and none satisfy me emotionally or physically.” 

2D paused. What could he mean by that? Does Murdoc just use people as toys for his own pleasure, to take things out of them, to ruin their lives to make his better? The thing with Stuart Pot was that he always thinks, he thinks until his brain is a scrambled egg on a hot summer afternoon, then it crashes. Murdoc made 2D’s brain scramble, twist and turn. He was the most confusing man he has ever met.

“People are things that keep the world working, yeah? You can never run out of them, try to take them away and what? You will be alone? Trust me….I have been alone, more alone than you can imagine-“

“Try me.” Murdoc interrupted bluntly.

Stuart continued. “What I am trying to say is, Murdoc, is that you can desert everyone, no one is leaving anytime soon, and I certainly am not. We need to solve this...this thing…whatever it is, and I am not leaving until we find purpose in this.” Stuart fell back in his velvet plane seat and sighed. “I am not ready to see Crawley again.” 

Murdoc was silent the rest of the plane ride, and Stuart gave up trying to conduct a conversation with him. He slicked his azure hair back and watched as the plane lower into grey creamy clouds, he knew they were getting close. He grabbed his notebook and pen, opening it to find the page where sentences were written. His inky pen trailed above the sentence ‘love forever, love is free.’ He presses the tip hard until the dot was a dark black-blue, he trailed the pen downward to illustrate an F, then an E.

Feel good 

He had to feel good. He was home.

…

The cabbie ride wasn’t too far, and the driver was as friendly as ever, Stuart swore he remembers the man, maybe he possibly drove him to boarding school and back? He had a familiar mustache. 

Stuart was the one that usually carried the conversation, while Murdoc practically slumped in the backseat. Every once and a while if 2D asked a question regarding Niccals, and all he would do is make a short stout gruff noise, then the conversation would continue. Every time Stuart heard Murdoc make that noise, small bit of alcohols entered his nostrils.

Sailors love alcohol. Right then.

Stuart paid the man for the cabbie ride and unloaded their small amount of luggage, with the ‘slow’ and ‘aggravating’ help of Murdoc. 

The cab left and Stuart turned to see the moaning apartment building above him, swaying in the wind, it’s grey paint chipping off from erosion, displaying dark moist wood under. It was terrifying, almost monstrous. Something has changed, Stuart thought. He understood that the recent happenings with Germany and Britain could have changed this, but most of Crawley has remained calm and collected, the city was certainly cleaned up pretty quickly after the bombings, but why not Stuart’s home? And the dead, skinny trees reaching out of the ground wasn’t helping the scenery at all.

Murdoc stood up and brushed his black turtleneck. He reached in his dirty pocket and slipped the keys into his hand. “Lead the way, room eight, right?”

“Y-yes, right.” Stuart bit his lip and tilted his head up, mouth pried open. He couldn’t move, only stare at the creature he once called home. A voice wisped around his brain, begging him to not enter, to not speak, or knock, to slip any key into a knob. 

He stood there, motionless. This is where he last was before the wreck in London, he remembers the last dinner he had the night before the small trip to the city, roast beef and apple pie, the smell was spectacular. But now all the paperboy could smell was exhausted and cold air that nipped at his nose, causing him to shake slightly.

“Faceache! Hey! Faceache! Aw-bloody-“ 

2D could hear Murdoc’s calls, the older man was at least 30 feet away from him now, and all the way up to the front door of the apartment building. “Are you going to come or not? Cause I can most definitely do this myself so I can get out of this bloody mess!” He called. Murdoc’s voices echoed around him, and it killed the evil wisp in his brain, and 2D trailed after him. To enter.

Once the door to the main apartment was open, darkness faced the two men. Blues, blacks and brown filled their eyes. It was a small entrance, with a dark brown staircase in front of them, then two separate halls on each side. Classic Victorian carvings and styles were engraved in the wood, shining as the light of the grey whipped sky hit them. 

Murdoc made his first move, he walked in as his Cuban heels hit a floorboard, resulting in a eerily creek. He continued quickly and looked at the room signs, saying eight was upstairs. 

Stuart remembers this place, he remembers the brown of the room mostly. The lights were always on when he would come home to have dinner with his parents, and a lovely bellhop would greet him with a rosy cheeked smile and a nod, on certain occasions Stuart would receive a lolly from him and a magic trick, where he could pull the candy out of his sleeve. 

But now, just like outside the apartment house, it was deceased, rotting, it seemed as if no one lived here anymore, no light, no love. Stuart was taught that everything changes in life, but not like this, this wasn’t intended, ever. He wanted to shed a tear, this was a miserable place. 

Stuart caught up with Murdoc and passed up slightly up the stairs. “Keep going straight.” The paperboy commanded. 

Creaks and groans filled his ears, dead crunchy leaves littered the floor, he could notice mold growing in the corner. The walls, once a bright happy mahogany transformed into a lifeless chocolate, the wood was more chipped then he has ever seen it in the past hallways. 

The door to his old apartment was the same as the walls. The number eight practically seemed like it had its own pair of eyes, one on top and one on the bottom of the loop, and it was gazing darkly into Stuart’s eyes. A small spider scuttled across the number and into the crack of the door. 

Murdoc exhaled and pushed the key into the lock, and turned slowly. The door creaked open and all Stuart could do is gasp with sadness. 

His home, gone, a wasteland. A realm of nothing, with dust particles dancing in the air. Light from the swirling grey sky peaked through the small windows. The first room, the kitchen, was in shambles, parts of the cupboards were broken and lopsided, the floor was molding, small spider webs settled in the corners as small flies cuddled in their silky trap, ready to be eaten.

Murdoc took the first step, and after that his bony hand reached in his back pockets and slipped a small pistol out. He cocked it softly and raised it. “What are you doing?!” Stuart hissed. 

“This could be a bloody trap. No one is here. Do you honestly believe a place like this could have anyone living in it.” Niccals argued aggressively, also hissing through his broken yellow teeth. 

Stuart bit his lip. “This place,” He muttered. “What...What has happened? All of Crawley is mostly renovated after the blitz, why didn’t they fix this, my h-home.” He trembled and shuffled behind Murdoc, his peacoat began to catch dust particles. 

“The economy is fucked up….” Murdoc muttered and then turned to his gun, still aiming it at nothing. “Not everything can be saved, 2D, and if Churchill can’t fix thi-“ The older man paused, he felt a knock. “Did you catch that?” He whispered slowly. 

Stuart’s dark eyes widened and he nodded, the knock wasn’t at the door, it was coming from….underground. 

“Oi!” Murdoc shouted, which caused the blue haired boy to flinch and catch his chest. “You sodding bastard! We have received your letter! Here I am! You fucking asked for it!” The sailor began to breathe a bit more heavily now. “Murdoc Niccals! I am Murdoc Niccals! Come at me! What do you want?!” 

Plain silence was the only response, along with the sobbing wind pushing through the slightly broken windows. 

“Murdoc, this isn’t the best idea. Don’t yell-“ 

“This is a trick! I could sense it all along.” He whispered aggressively back at 2D, then turned back to nothing but the dark kitchen. “Gorenstein! Gorenstein!” He began to call, more angrier and angrier. 

“Murdoc!” Stuart protested and speed-walked closer to him, he was now entering the living room, it was just as empty and ominous as the previous room. 

“Gorenst-“ Before Murdoc could call the name, a loud, terrifying moan erupted from the ground. “Christ!” Murdoc screamed in surprise and his shaking finger squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet through the wall. 

“Murdoc!” Stuart gasped again and rushed to grab his shoulders. The sailor thrashed around, ferocious anger bubbled inside him. “Stop! Stop! You are in panic, stop!”

Murdoc twisted away from 2D’s grasp and thrashed around the floor, stomping and shouting. 2D crashed to the floor and gasped in pain. He pushed his blue locks from his face and dashed over to where Murdoc was complaining about. The sailor began to stomp harder and harder, as he made his way into the living room. His actions caused dust to form and float about, making both of them slightly cough and sniffle. 

As Murdoc slowed his violent thrashing, he set his boot on a floorboard, and a woman’s muffled scream erupted from underneath him. There was something….no, someone underneath there. He rested the front of his old dirty boot on the board, and slowly lifted it upwards, his gun staying firmly in his hands. 

“Murdoc! I-“ Before Stuart could answer, he was silenced by the sight of what was inside the floorboard. 

A young woman and a small child stayed huddled up in the corner of the small rectangular compartment, smudged with dirt. The woman looked to be roughly in her late twenties, while the boy looked possibly around ten. The woman yelped, then sobbed quietly, her curly dark brown hair was a mess, makeup was smeared down her large dewey brown eyes, her lips tightened, and she gritted her teeth in fear. 

The child’s eyes were wide with fear as well, his dark brows knitted upward, and his mouth agape, he clinged to his mother for dear life, his Bambi eyes gazed up at Murdoc, who was in much shock as they were. 

Just as Murdoc quickly slipped his gun in his back pocket, Stuart ran toward the hole. “Ma’am! Ma’am! It’s alright! It’s ok!”

“Please! Please no!” She shook with fear and grabbed her child’s head, holding him to her chest, like he was her treasure. “Don’t take us! Don’t take him!” 

“We are not enemies! It’s ok!” Stuart leaned down towards the woman and tired to soothe her. “We aren’t going to hurt you. It’s alright….here, let us introduce ourselves, just take a deep breath. I am Stuart. I am from London, I am British, I am with the Allies. Now, who are you?” He asked with a small smile on his face. He grabbed the woman’s hand gingerly, and rubbed his thumb on her palm. Stuart’s eyes flickered back to Murdoc, who was still in shock, against a set of cupboards, eyes full of disbelief.

“B…” She shook. “Batya.” 

2D paused for a moment. Batya. Perhaps Hebrew? “Batya….can I help you up.” His hands started to jerk and requested to pull her up. She gave in slowly and carefully. “Murdoc, help me with the child?” 

Murdoc, still against the wall, looked down at the child, still in shock. He brewed up the courage to walk to the open floorboard and approached the small thing. He was frail, pale as flour and his eyes were sunken. Murdoc bent over and blinked rapidly, his old eyes staring into his new ones. He didn’t say anything, and reached his hands out carefully, not trying to scare the child.

He knew he wasn’t good with children. He’s actually made some cry before, either with his toothy smile or...just existing. This is why he knew he would never have a child living with him, he just wasn’t fit for the occupation of a father. 

He took his actions slow, as his long tan fingers reached under the boy’s skinny underarms, hoisting him upwards. The child didn’t squirm or cry or scream, he grunted as he was lifted and sighed once Murdoc sat him down. Afterwards, the woman ran to her child and held onto him. Murdoc backed away slowly.

“And what is your name?” 2D asked quietly.

The child rubbed his fingers across his suspenders. “Juliańsky.”

“Darling,” Batya knelt and rubbed his back. “English please, they are English men, say your name to them.”

“...Jules.” He spoke in his rich Polish sounding accent. 

“It is nice to meet you Jules.” 2D smiled and shook his hand slowly. 

“What brings you here…” Batya asked, with the slight tone of worry and curiosity. 

“Well, what brings YOU lot here?” Murdoc scoffed and crossed his arms.

“Murdoc!” Stuart yelped.

“They must have something to do with this,” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter. “You wrote this, didn’t you? Clearly you live here, if so Dents needs some explaining to do.” 

“Dents?” Batya bit her cherry coated lips and stuttered. “His name is Stuart.” 

“I had no idea you were hiding them in your house! You’re house! I am so bloody confused!” The sailor grabbed his head and groaned.

“What are you talking about!” Stuart held his hands out wide in confusion. “I am still wondering why they are here! I’ve abandoned this house for a year!” 

“They are hiding something, you are hiding something, Faceache!” Murdoc practically spit on the young man, his mouth shooting out words like a fiery explosion, destroying anyone in sight. “Now, you tell me,” His boots stomped against the weak floor, he reached Stuart and grabbed his collar, gripping it tightly, his fingernails plunged into the clean fabric. Stuart opened his mouth, letting out a loud squeal. “Don’t talk over me while I’m talking over you!” He snarled, Murdoc’s nose was practically against his. “Who is fucking Gorenstein!?” 

“I am!” A feminine voiced popped in. Murdoc slowly turned to see Batya, her hands formed and folded in front of her, she standed proper and poise, even though her hair was snarled and practically unwashed. The young boy grabbed her dingy shirt, chewing on his thumb and index. “I am Gorenstein!”

“What?” Stuart gasped as Murdoc clenched his shirt tighter. 

Eventually, the sailor let go, trudging towards the woman. He violently grabbed her hand, and shoved the crumpled letter in her hand. “You sent me all the bloody way here, for what?!” 

She looked at the crumpled note, her brown droopy eyes scanning word after word. “What….I never wrote this, sir, and to be incredibly honest, no one knows what you are talking about, not even your friend over there.” 

“He is not my friend, Batya Gorenstein.” 

“I don’t even know your name.” Her eyes glimmered in the pearl weather, peaking through the windows. 

He paused. “M-Murdoc Niccals.”

“I don’t know who’s penmanship this is, sir.” Murdoc was taken aback, the young woman’s attention and concentration was strong, her atmosphere she brings is independent. “I am just as confused as yourself.” Her soft spoken words, almost invisibly commanded Murdoc to calm. 

“Then, th-then.” Murdoc sputtered and his lips curled with disbelief. “Then who’s is it then? Your father? Mother? You don’t know how many questions I have for you, for sodding both of you!” He turned and pointed to Stuart. 

The paperboy, who was crumbled to the floor, protested and opened his mouth, but before he could start, the young woman spoke.

“He has done nothing! I have done nothing!” She protested. “The writing...is not my fathers, nor my mother’s.”

“Then where are your parents?” Murdoc asked with anticipation.

“They are….they are dead.” She lowered her head, her cocoa curls curtained her face. “They were….they were taken…”

“Taken?” Stuart’s heart shaped face crinkled in confusion. “You’re Jewish.” 

“That I am.” She nodded curtly. 

“You have been hiding...but...you haven’t sent the letter?” 

“C-correct!” She nodded quickly. “My mother and father...they are dead, they were taken away from me, in Warsaw.” 

“Oh,” Stuart rolled his tongue on his cheek and clicked it. “I am, so sorry.”

“Then how did you lot get here then?” Murdoc places his hands on his hips and made a thin line with his lips.

“I escaped here, the United Kingdom was the only safe route for me, all felt well, I was free, broken, because of my mother and father, but free. Broken and free….how can one feel such things?” Her soft face hardened and she clenched her teeth. “I, I remember finding this home, with a wonderful family...and you...I-I...remember you.” 

Stuart paused and pointed a long finger at himself. “What? M-me? I didn't know you were hiding! You were in my home!” Stuart turned to Murdoc and whispered. “She was in my home!”

“I had to hide from them, the Germans, I mean. Your family took me and Jules in, it was very secretive, that's probably why you didn't know about us.”

“I had people….hiding in my home.” 2D whispered, his dark circles for eyes widened, the purple bags under his eyes stretched. “You knew my father, my mother.”

“David and Rachel Pot, yes, are they here by any chance? I understand that the bombs may have scared your family away from Crawley and…” She stopped herself and let her mouth drop. “Mr Pot, are they…”

“Yes.” Was the only thing Stuart could push out of his mouth.

“I am dreadfully sorry.”

“So you stayed here? All this time?” Murdoc asked loudly from the other side of the room. 

“We did…we received food and water from nearby neighbors, but he had to continue to stay in a closed space, we can risk ourselves to escape.”

“I just...wow.” Stuart scratched his head and grinned. “I had no idea, no idea at all. By God, my mother and father were saints! Absolute saints!” 

Batya giggled at this and grabbed her son’s hand. “I knew you were someone I have seen before. You and your...blue hair and...well...I don't remember...your eyes, Stuart are you alright?”

“That's the same question I've been asking for two sodding days.” Murdoc growled.

“I can tell you...later, alright? How about…we call it an incident right now.” 

Batya nodded in understanding, while Murdoc chimed in again, his hands still crossed, brows raised in question. “Now, enough with all of the chit chat. With my little watchful eye, love, I've noticed a particular man is missing hm? Where could he be?” 

“I-I don't understand, sir.”

“The boy’s….” Murdoc paused on the word and let it out slowly. “F-father!”

The young woman’s face hardened again and went icy cold. “I...he…”

“Murdoc, she is clearly in stress, don't give her anymore.” Stuart said, shaking his head. 

“It's alright!” She interrupted and clenched Jules’ hand tighter. “It’s just that...his father isn't the best of men.”

“Can we get a name at least?” Murdoc asked, and tried his hardest to sugar coat it, working his hardest to mask the ungrateful tone in his voice.

“That is the problem, sir, I don't know.” 

“Y-you were…” 2D but his tongue to stop himself, and the young Jewish woman’s eyes dropped. 

“I didn’t know him, it went so fast I couldn’t make out anything. It happened right when your family took me in.” 

“Matka….Matka….” Jules tugged on her skirt, his eyes scattered around the room desperately. 

“Not now my darling.” She cooed then turned back to the two men and continued. “I knew it wasn’t your father, Stuart, he was far too kind, and this shape of a man...n-no...a-a monster, it was gruesome and large and angry.”

“Murdoc-“ Stuart interrupted and froze in his place, his slightly tan skin paled and his mouth moved but no sound emerged. He began to regain his speaking, but it was jumbled and shaky. “M-Murdoc what if, w-what if the author was him? His father?” Stuart pointed at Jules.

“What are you on about now?” Murdoc growled.

“He is asking you to take care of a boy! This must be him Murdoc! There is no other boy here!”

“How would I know a bloody bloke who clearly assaulted this woman!? All of my friends were lowlifes and would always give consent!”

“They don’t have to be your friends!” 2D exclaimed. “This must be the author! It has to! Quick! Mrs Gorenstein! Are there any other clues in this paper?” He rushed to the woman and snatched the paper from her hands quickly. 

“Mama!” Jules squealed again. His mother quieted him down again and turned to see what Stuart was analyzing. Murdoc watched as his eyes squinted and rose in frustration, unable to find any other clues.

Just then, everyone paused as they heard a shuffle and a soft crash on the floor. Batya swished her head quickly to spot her child standing around a pile of papers, and a rugged and brown stained box. 

“Darling! What did I tell….” The young woman rushed to his side and bent down to pick up the piles.

“I-I don’t remember having these. We cleaned the whole house on my way to the sta-“ Stuart was suddenly interrupted by a harsh scream from the woman. “What?! What is it?!” He rushed to her while, once again, Murdoc analyzed the situation against the walls.

Stuart bent near her as he watched her shaky hands drift across a piece of paper, black and inky marks were placed on the tanned sheets of age, at first, Stuart didn’t understand while Batya was screaming, but then as his eyes focused, blotches of dried blood dragged across certain symbols of the unknown language...was it a language? 

“Wh-what, what is this?” She trembled. “Darling, where did you find this?” 

Stuart interrupted her quickly and swished his head to the sailor. “Murdoc, come here, do you see this?” The sailor shuffled over and quickly and aggressively snatched the paper from her hands. He first thought the concept that this young Batya woman was absolute rubbish, but his thick brows furrowed as he analyzed the paper. 

Layers of dust piled on the surprisingly large spots of blood, at least that’s what he thought, the writing was absurd, almost ancient of some sort. 

“I think….” Stuart trailed and Murdoc’s eyes flickered to him. “It’s….Glagolitic.” He confirmed. 

“And how the bloody hell do you know that?!” Murdoc argued with a icy hiss.

“I remember studying it, at St Wilfrids’. It’s Slavic, correct?”

“Do I look Slavic to you?” Murdoc growled back and clenched the paper tightly. 

“Careful!” Batya warned. “This might be new evidence! Stuart?” She turned to the young man with pleading eyes. “Can you read any of this?”

“I-I, I can’t do it.” He sighed. “M-maybe the library could work? I could find a book on Slavic history, the building is near here-“ 

“Mr Tusspot! Mr Tusspot!” Jules called from across the room, he hobbled to the blue haired man and handed him another set of papers. Old with age like the Glagolitic script. 

“Jules!” Batya hissed lightly. “It’s Pot, my darling. Mr Pot.”

“It’s quite alright.” 2D whispered and knelt down to the child. “May I see these please? Thank you.” He stood up and Batya looked over him. 

“Same handwriting….” Batya muttered. It was another note. She scanned it quickly, it was scribbled, jagged and unneat. Blotted ink sprayed lightly across the paper. Gibberish words and sayings jumbled in Batya’s mind as she read out loud, squinting at the words and concentrating as Stuart’s hand shook while holding the strange note.

The note consisted of scribbled writings with the words of colors written about, each connected to a location. Oahu, Crawley, and Sweden. 

“It’s asking us to….match colors? What does the writer mean by colors?” 

“Things! Things representing the countries perhaps?” Batya stated at the paper for quite some time. “You choose the letters in the colors. Last letter in a four letter word….in someone’s head. Wh-what does that mean…” Batya bit her lip. “Mr Niccals, you might want to take a look at this.” 

Murdoc, still gripping the old, blood coated Slavic language, put his other hand out to take the other note. Colors...he had to find bloody colors? And match the letters within them? 

Last letter in a four letter word that is found on someone’s head. “Bloody shit that’s what this is.” Murdoc thought. His hazel eyes continued to scan until he flipped the sheet and turned to the back. His eyes squinted in curiosity with a pinch of terror as he marveled at the strange sketch. 

It was a devil. Or at least that’s what he thought it was. Green, red and yellow were his colors. It was clearly drawn by an an amature artist, and his penmanship of the Latin script next to the devil was shaky and uncertain. He could now feel 2D’s feet scuffle up to him and peer into the back of the sheet.

“I know this…” His whisper made Murdoc shiver. 

“Don’t scare me like that.”

Stuart ignored his words and he bit his lip. “The Codex Gigas.” 

“The what?” Batya asked from afar and trailed after the two men. 

“The Codex Gigas. Latin for big book. I have also learned this in school. I-It was written by a priest, it took a lifetime for him to finish it, at least that’s what the myth says, or he was possibly….controlled by the devil of some sort to write it in one night. He was challenging his leader, a Catholic monk leader, that he could write the biggest book of all. My school said he wanted...power...acceptance.” 

2D’s words began to echo in Murdoc’s skull as he blankly stared at the devil picture. Colors, the devil, Sweden…

The boy. 

“The Codex is kept in a Swedish Library.” Stuart stated. “So that is why we have a ticket to go there.” 

Murdoc began to shake, he heard Stuart and the young woman next to him ask him if he was alright. He didn’t answer. His dark eyes shifted to Jules, who was standing across the room, his eyes staring directly at his.

A creepiness was in the boy’s eyes, but also darkness and a hint of mischief. It felt like a godly deity judging the sinful and unworthy. And Murdoc felt small. By a child? 

The letter stated he would meet a boy. And Murdoc was certain this was the one. He needed to take care of him, as if he was the father. Someone is giving him and only him the opportunity to save him, to care for him, but why him? Why a rusty old sailor with the mouth of a fiery volcano and the movements of a crooked bouy in the sea. Why him? 

The dark eyes of Jules continued to stare into him. Stuart’s and Batya’s voices still echoed inside of him. Colors...Language...Blood….Codex….Sweden….Boy…

Murdoc silenced the voices and clutched the paper of the devil, the green paint rubbed against his thumb. 

“We need to go.”

Jules’ creepy brown eyes shined in the sky’s milky white light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading chapter 2! 
> 
> This chapter might have been a little confusing, let me know if you have any questions. 
> 
> Theme for this chapter: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=oVvBD3WnfmI
> 
> Feedback is very much appreciated!!-WP

**Author's Note:**

> There’s chapter one! Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I’ve also made a playlist dedicated to this: https://open.spotify.com/user/pa5q9uqoz4v7bhg9ityzunedf/playlist/7vKepesyjpQMTnvJusaPvr?si=-gZBx9bRRAC7d8ydw_Dvmw
> 
> while this playlist isn’t complete, many of the songs set a mood for each chapter, for instance this chapter’s theme is: Expression by Helen Jane Long. I can definitely see this as Stuart’s theme. I am always taking requests to put more songs in the playlist! 
> 
> Until next time xoxoxo


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